I dislike the eye drowning in Bigfoot’s assprint.
In the lush grass in that deep crater,
secular sex’s demise –
in addition to not being an art –
has no clue how bricks work.
But that was how our village looked, there were no
bricks – only crooked, twirly chimneys – and all our witches
did all day was look for the serpentine sandal.
They didn’t question why the tree line around the assprint bent
into the shape of huge checkered shorts,
specked with grass leaves and unscuffed by mortar –
erratic movements spreading beyond the hemline:
then quietly strangled.
But when do serpentine movements turn into belly dancing?
When do they become gaga, as it were,
as in the early evening with petroleum poured on the joke –
which witches find SO gross.
Then with white knuckles they pried open
the meat but the suburbs on the sparkling orbiting
postcards that slipped out were SO posh:
by our tradition we considered it criminal having ass-killing lawns